


dead things

by naktoms



Category: Daenamhyup | DNH, Just Music Entertainment
Genre: M/M, Someone dies, blood? lots of blood, lots of symbolism except siyoung explains it himself so, mmminor suicidal thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-13
Updated: 2016-01-13
Packaged: 2018-05-13 17:04:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5710198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naktoms/pseuds/naktoms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Siyoung is left asking, praying, pleading. It does not work.<br/>(He forgot to say 'I love you'.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	dead things

**Author's Note:**

> so that hyungwonho thing i wrote? yeah heres this too  
> dont you just LOVE it when i decide to write shit like this bc i sure do. i sure do
> 
> kudos + comments are appreciated!! i hope u enjoy!!

Siyoung’s visions come in dreams. His subconscious has long gotten used to the invasion of headspace, so instead of waking in a cold sweat and short of breath, he is simply calm.

His visions are heavily symbolic and he has long stopped trying to figure them out, but he does sketch what he sees and keeps them in a folder, one for each month of the year. He currently has three boxes filled with these folders. He has also long stopped trying to explain what he sees to others, because in the end all he has to go on himself is incoherent scenes and images strung together.

So, his boyfriend Hunchul tends to wake up to texts reading “deer antlers and a woman in black” and “seas of red and birds dropping out of the sky”. Hunchul in turn has long stopped trying to think of any sort of reply to these things, instead asking if Siyoung wants him to come over today.

(The answer is always _yes_ , veiled in a _i guess, if you want to._ )

 

Hunchul’s hands are very warm, a contrast to the way Siyoung’s are always icy. Hunchul always has to be touching Siyoung in some way, and Siyoung wonders if it’s for Hunchul’s sake or for Siyoung’s. Siyoung appreciates it, in any case.

“Hey,” Hunchul says, to get Siyoung’s attention. Siyoung hums in response. “Do you know when like, all of this is going to happen?”

“Nope,” Siyoung responds, carefully slipping his fingers behind his glasses so he can rub his eyes. “That’s the bad thing, I can’t do anything about it because I don’t know if this is going to happen in two days or in three million years. Whatever the fuck gave this to me is just fucking with me.”

They have been dating for a year, but there are always questions where Siyoung is concerned. “How long has it been happening?”

“Ten years, since high school. The first time was awful, my parents totally wanted to chuck me into a mental ward. I learned to keep my damn mouth shut about it.” Siyoung lets his hands fall away from his face, and Hunchul reclaims the one closest to him. “Now, prophets are almost hailed. Some are worshipped. I can’t imagine having a cult of followers waiting for my next vision.”

“I think they’re interesting,” Hunchul replies quietly. “They might… mean bad things, like death or famine or whatever the fuck, but your sketches are interesting.”

“So are you saying you’re my one single cult follower?” Siyoung asks, turning his head to look at Hunchul.

Hunchul smiles, shy. “I guess so. I’d do anything for you, so I guess that fits.”

Hunchul’s casual mush always falls warm in Siyoung’s chest. It’s something to fill the hollowness. “You love me a lot, huh.” Siyoung mumbles to himself. Hunchul hears and nods his head. “I love you too.”

Hunchul looks to Siyoung then, a soft smile turning the corners of his mouth up. “I’m glad.”

Siyoung is glad too.

 

Siyoung’s dreams tonight are less abstract, less blank space with items in it and more residential areas, more apartment buildings, more fire and brimstone and deer antlers, swirling from the blaze like smoke and appearing in the sky.

Siyoung realizes as the dream fades from his mind that the apartment building is the one he lives in.

He leaps out of bed, scrambling to his desk and barely pausing to throw his glasses on before he’s drawing, sketching the burning building with the antlers settled above it. Then, he calls Hunchul.

“I’m scared,” Siyoung says when Hunchul groans in greeting. “I had a dream and it’s- it’s something I know, it’s something that could happen at any time. It’s an actual thing and I’m so scared.”

“Slow down,” Hunchul grumbles, voice horribly growly from sleep. “What was it?”

“My apartment building on _fire_ ,” Siyoung whispers, and he realizes he’s tearing up a few moments before the tears fall, streaming down his cheeks. “I’m so scared.”

“Do you want me to come over?” Hunchul asks, and Siyoung knows he should say no, for Hunchul’s sake. He has work in the morning, he has to sleep. Hunchul doesn’t really give him a chance to reply, though. “I’m coming over. Just, sit tight, I’ll be there in a few minutes.” Another long pause, then, “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Siyoung whispers, barely audible. Hunchul hangs up with a dull beep and Siyoung sets his phone down, then takes his glasses off and presses the heels of his hands to his eyes.

It seems like mere seconds before there’s a knock at his door and he realizes that yes, indeed, he did lock his door before he went to sleep and Hunchul probably didn’t bring his key because of the rush. Siyoung rises from his desk chair and shuffles across his cold floors to the front door, undoing the locks and blinking up at Hunchul.

He looks so adorably sleepy, eyes half-lidded and hair still uncombed. He steps into the apartment proper, shuts the door so Siyoung doesn’t have to, and then pulls Siyoung into a hug.

Siyoung cries on reflex, face buried in Hunchul’s chest. Hunchul holds him tight until his shoulders stop trembling, then takes him by the hand and leads him back to the bedroom.

“I don’t care if you go back to sleep or not,” Hunchul says, “but I am, and I’m going to cuddle the shit out of you while I do it. Is that cool?”

“Very cool,” Siyoung replies, but his voice cracks pathetically. Hunchul settles himself in bed and holds the blanket back for Siyoung to climb in as well, which he does after only a moment’s pause.

Siyoung’s nerves settle while he’s tucked against Hunchul’s front, but he doesn’t fall back asleep.

_I am so scared._

 

“Do you want to get married?”

Hunchul stops in his tracks, chopsticks clinking against his plate. “Married?” He eventually repeats, raising his eyes from his food to Siyoung’s face.

“Yeah, married. Lately I feel so…” Siyoung makes wild gestures with his hands to indicate things like ‘scatterbrained’ and ‘lost’. “You- you make me feel better. I just- I want to get married. Prophets don’t have long life times.”

Hunchul ducks his head, swirling his noodles around his chopsticks. “Please, don’t remind me.”

“Sorry. But, I’m serious.”

Hunchul wets his lips nervously, then shovels some noodles into his mouth. “I think,” Hunchul says once his bite has been swallowed, “that’s a great idea.”

Siyoung can’t help the grin that comes to his face. “You think?”

“Yeah, I think. We can get married, no problem.”

It doesn’t officially happen for another few, long months, but from then on Siyoung says it: _He is my husband_. It feels good, solid, something to hold onto when all Siyoung has is glimpses of things to pass.

So, married. Second hand rings on their fingers, sure, but married. Siyoung is not alone in the slightest, not anymore.

 

“You know,” Hunchul says, sitting in the floor with all sorts of Siyoung’s sketches spread out in front of him, “there’s something about the deer antlers.”

“Right? They’re in almost every one of my dreams, it’s weird.” Siyoung slides into the floor from his position on the couch, careful not to rumple any of his sketches. “Do you have any ideas?”

“Well, it has to symbolise one of us, right? Because they’re here,” Hunchul puts his finger lightly on the sketch born from Siyoung’s dream almost two months ago, of the deer antlers hanging above Siyoung’s burning apartment building, “and you live here. And then here, from a few weeks ago, like, what, two days before we decided to get married?”

Siyoung peers at the indicated drawing, the one of the antlers veiled in white and with the heads of black roses falling from the sky. “Ah. I see, but which one of us do you think it is?”

“I think it’s you,” Hunchul says. “Some of your sketches from years back have the same antlers, same size and shape and everything. I mean, I know your visions are supposed to be prophetic or whatever, but I can’t believe that I’d be so important that your visions would give me a symbol all my own.”

Siyoung shrugs. “I dunno how the hell it works, it could be anything. Maybe the antlers are a symbol for whatever kind of god gave me this power.”

“Maybe. I dunno, I’m just… like you, I want to figure it out.”

“There’s not much to figure out.”

“It seems like it’s signalling a lot of death,” Hunchul says, and his tone is far too bright for what he’s said. “The seas of red and the constant use of black, black clothes and roses and wood. Doesn’t it seem like it’s warning you of something?”

“It’s been warning me of _something_ for years now and nothing’s happened,” Siyoung says, reaching behind him for the opened box of folders and digging one out from his first year of high school, flipping to a random sketch and laying it in Hunchul’s lap. “See, black roses and a coffin. Don’t you think if this meant anything important like that, it would have already happened?”

“Well,” Hunchul says, gently laying the drawing aside, “maybe you’re not like the other seers out there in the world, where the things you see have an impact on _everyone_. Maybe it’ll only impact you.”

“Are you suggesting I’m gonna die?”

Hunchul shrugs. “Maybe.”

Siyoung shoves his shoulder. “I’m not going to live long in the first place, no prophet ever does. It’s- it’s heavy, having all that shit crammed in your head.”

“Do you ever stop thinking about it?”

“No.”

Hunchul reaches behind him for Siyoung’s hand, squeezing it once he’s found it. “I’m sorry. I love you.”

“I know you do, I love you too.” After a moment’s pause, Siyoung continues with, “Why do you think I’m like this?”

Hunchul turns thoughtful, running his thumb along Siyoung’s knuckles. “I’m not sure,” he answers at last. “I don’t have any ideas, really. I guess whatever god gave it to you thought that you deserved it.”

Siyoung stays silent, processing the words. _Deserved it_. Sure. “I’m never going to do anything with it, don’t you think that the god would’ve noticed that by now?”

“Maybe it can see into the future too. Maybe it knows that you will.”

“You’re getting too fake-deep on me,” Siyoung says to break up the seriousness. Hunchul looks over his shoulder and grins.

“That’s my job.”

 

Siyoung wakes up bleeding. He’s not sure from where, but as usual his priority is not himself, but getting what’s in his head on paper.

He stumbles out of bed and slides into his desk chair, not bothering to turn on his desk lamp since there’s sunlight barely filtering through the open blinds. A brief brush of his hand over his face allows him to locate the source of the bleeding- it’s his nose, and very badly, to boot, running somewhat cold and dark red down his face and into his mouth. He presses the crook of his thumb to his nostrils, and sees the blood pool and run down the back of his hand.

It drips on the blank sketchbook paper before him as he draws and he thinks it’s rather befitting. His vision was of a deer, something for the infamous antlers to belong to, standing over a coffin full of roses and dead things. The blood splatters slightly when it hits the paper, staining the crisp lines of the deer’s face and its wide, dark eyes.

Siyoung hears a soft inquiry of his name from his left but doesn’t look over, too focused on perfecting the shape of the roses and rotting skin on the skulls.

“Oh my god,” Hunchul says then, uncharacteristically coherent for his usual morning time state. “God, Siyoung, you’re bleeding! What the hell happened?”

Siyoung realizes that he is still bleeding, blood on his hand not coming away sticky as it should be by now. Hunchul comes to Siyoung’s side quickly, pulling his hand away from his face and making a face, wide eyes filled with worry. “It’s me,” Siyoung says, dropping his pencil. His hand falls heavy on the sketchpad and he taps the deer’s face insistently, smudging blood into lead. “It’s me, the deer is me.”

Siyoung isn’t sure what happens, but he wakes up in his bathtub, warm water surrounding him. Hunchul is sitting on the toilet, lid down, with Siyoung’s sketchbook in his lap. Siyoung notices that the water is a faint sort of pink color.

Not sure what else to say, Siyoung asks, “Am I okay?”

Hunchul raises his gaze to Siyoung’s face. “I don’t know. Are you okay?”

“I don’t know,” Siyoung echoes. “I feel so- ugh… I feel like I’m going to throw up.”

“You really scared me,” Hunchul says, sliding into the floor and coming to sit by the tub. “Please, if you wake up bleeding like that again, take care of it first.”

“I can’t risk forgetting anything.” Siyoung complains, voice coming out faint. He rests his head against the wall. “I’m sorry.”

Hunchul raises up onto his knees and leans over to kiss Siyoung’s forehead. “It’s okay. You should have seen the looks people were giving me when I took our sheets to the laundry.”

Siyoung laughs, rubbing a hand over his face. “God. I didn’t even look, how bad was it?”

“Your whole fucking pillow was soaked, even underneath on the sheet. The mattress was starting to get it, but I scrubbed it out.” Hunchul sits back down, pulling his long legs up against his chest. “I wonder what made that happen? Was it just… too much?”

“I guess. I feel really bad, Hunchul.”

Hunchul pulls Siyoung’s hand out of the water and holds it tight. “I’m sorry. Do you want something to eat? I can make you something…”

Siyoung shakes his head, letting his eyes fall shut. “No, I’m- it’s fine, for now. Thank you.”

Hunchul kisses the back of Siyoung’s hand. “No problem. I’ll do anything for you.”

_I know you will. I think that’s the problem._

 

When it comes to Siyoung, he does not cry. He stares at his chosen drawings laying in front of him on the hardwood, slowly becoming more detailed as the dates in the corners grow more recent, from the blood stained drawing to this morning’s dream.

It all adds up to the fact that the one thing keeping Siyoung glued together is going to die. From the first sign, the deer staring into the coffin of roses and dead things, to the most recent close up of those dead things that revealed a ring shining in the midst of the fur and petals. There is nothing else it could be.

Hunchul comes home from work to see Siyoung curled up in front of his drawings, glasses laying on the floor near him and Siyoung himself staring at nothing, eyes unfocused. Hunchul takes his coat off and sits in the floor at Siyoung’s head, petting his hair.

“Are you okay?”

The million dollar question. “No.” Siyoung replies, lifting his head up so he can rest it on Hunchul’s knee. “You’re going to die.”

Hunchul doesn’t skip a beat. “I kind of figured. There’s nothing else it could be telling you, right?”

“I don’t get why it wants to _tell me this_ ,” Siyoung says through gritted teeth, but he is not angry. No, he is about to cry. “It’s not something I can do anything about,” he adds, pressing his face into Hunchul’s leg. “I don’t need to know this.”

Hunchul stays silent, still petting Siyoung’s hair. Siyoung curls up further in on himself, mumbling things Hunchul cannot hear. Hunchul gently pulls him upright and into his arms, saying, “Let’s… not think about it. Let’s enjoy whatever time we have left, okay?”

Siyoung buries his face in Hunchul’s shoulder, nodding. Hunchul holds him tight for as long as Siyoung will let him, like he always does.

_I don’t want to know this_ , Siyoung thinks to himself. _I don’t want him to die._

 

Siyoung stops drawing the things he sees. He finds himself turning to get out of bed when he wakes up, sheer images swirling in his head, but now he turns towards Hunchul and pulls him closer.

Despite his resolve to let everything he sees seep out of his head, he does find himself doodling his deer, detailing the soft spots in its coat and the sharp antlers that spiral out of its skull. He does not draw the dead things. Only his deer.

“I don’t think I could draw myself this well,” Siyoung comments as he’s crosshatching lines for the purpose of shading, darkening one of the lines in the deer’s hair.

Hunchul smiles. “Try drawing me, then.”

Siyoung glances up at Hunchul’s face, at his high cheekbones and curving lips. All he can think about is his deer’s coffin full of dead things. “Maybe next time,” Siyoung says coyly, shutting his sketchbook and setting it on the table. “I think you’re too pretty for me to draw, though. Draw yourself.”

“If you like a stick man with a cool bucket hat, then yes, I will.” Hunchul says, returning his attention to his phone. He rubs his feet against Siyoung’s ankle. “I love you, Siyoung.”

Siyoung smiles, resting his head against the back of the couch. “I love you too.”

He has found that days pass more pleasantly when he doesn’t _dwell_. He’s mostly decided that he would like to spend however much time they have left not looking ahead to what’s to happen. Siyoung loves Hunchul so much and he doesn’t want to miss him now.

(That can wait for when he’s gone.)

 

“Can you believe we’ve already been married for three years?”

Siyoung, pulled from his thoughts, stares at Hunchul, processing the words slowly. Then, he says, “ _Seriously_?”

“Seriously!” Hunchul replies, grinning. “I thought there was something cool about the date, and then I remembered. Or, well. My friend actually remembered for me.”

Siyoung smiles, giving a cursory glance to the ring on his finger. He thinks, briefly, if he’s going to keep wearing his ring after Hunchul is gone. It certainly throws a damper on the moment.

Siyoung takes a deep breath and asks, “How do you want to be buried?”

“Siyoung-”

“We have to talk about it,” Siyoung says firmly. “Pretending that it’s not going to happen is useless, right?”

Hunchul sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “My parents will bury me however they want to. I don’t really care.”

Siyoung nods thoughtfully. “Okay.”

“How about you?” Hunchul asks, as if it’s just a normal small talk topic.

“Soon, I want to be buried soon.”

Hunchul sticks his tongue out. “Not funny.”

“It wasn’t a joke.”

Hunchul pouts a little, reaching over to pat Siyoung’s knee. “You’ll- you’re going to be okay, Siyoung. I know you will be.”

Tears sting at the back of Siyoung’s eyes and he hurriedly blinks them away. “I don’t- no, no. I won’t be okay, but I’m okay right now.”

Hunchul smiles, leaving his hand on Siyoung’s knee. “That’s all that matters.”

Maybe it is, but Siyoung wishes he could stay okay.

 

Siyoung goes to the local temple. He’s not one hundred percent sure what religion it’s for, but any kind will do for what he has to ask.

He feels out of sorts among the people wearing traditional clothing and looking impeccably neat around him, especially the more devout ones clutching beads to their chest. He’s never been to any kind of religious place before in his life, but anything to get closer to that being in the great beyond that’s overlording him.

There are cushions lined along the altar for people to kneel on. Siyoung does so, finding that the hardwood floor still hurts his knees. It’s worth it.

Siyoung doesn’t know whether to keep his eyes open or close them. He opts for staring at incense smoke swirling above his head. He prays because he can’t think of anything else to do, knowing that he has not escaped his visions by not remembering them. He is still being warned, hinted towards what is to come, and just because he’s not paying attention doesn’t mean it won’t happen.

So, he prays, telling whatever may be listening things he has been telling himself for the past thirteen years: _I do not want this._

He stays there long after he’s done, listening to the soft murmurs of those around him and inhaling the scents of wood and rich oil. He is not religious by any means, but he feels at ease.

So, this becomes a habit. He goes to the temple when Hunchul is at work, partly to have something to do and partly to pray. His praying turns into something more like pleading, a desperate, long-gone hope that he will be shown mercy burning in his chest.

 

And it does not _work_.

Siyoung decides to sleep in just one time, doesn't wake up in the slightest when Hunchul leaves for work, though he does remember Hunchul kissing his forehead and telling him _I love you_. Siyoung did not return it.

And now he is waking up to a phone call.

"Hello, is this Hong Siyoung?"

"What? Oh, yeah, it is. Who is this?"

All the woman on the other end has to say is, "I'm calling from the Yonsei University Medical Center," and he _knows_. She, of course, continues. "You were given as a contact for Jung Hunchul. I... regret to tell you this, but-"

"You don't have to tell me, I already know." Siyoung says briskly, feeling his throat tightening. "I know. Thank you."

The nurse starts to say something else but Siyoung hangs up, then positively throws his phone back onto the night stand. He is silent, staring up at the ceiling, trying to remember what his vision was. He knows he had one.

_A deer and his dead thing._

Siyoung cries. He throws an arm over his face and cries, wailing into his empty room. His cries echo back to him, broken and hollow. He barely notices.

 

Siyoung has never met Hunchul’s family in person. He thinks it’s a shame that they’re only meeting now, over their mutual love’s dead body.

Funerals always proceed like this: you enter, you talk to people, you join the line going up to stare at the embalmed corpse and lament over how great of a person he was, you leave. Siyoung only speaks to Hunchul’s mother, looking as wrecked as he feels.

Despite their relative awkwardness, Hunchul’s mother asks, “Do you want to walk up together?” And so they do, arms linked, Mrs. Jung rubbing the inside of Siyoung’s arm soothingly.

Hunchul is still beautiful, and Siyoung would be one of the delusional, inclined to believe Hunchul is just sleeping, if it weren’t for the paleness of his skin, the purple tint beneath his fingernails.

Surprisingly, Mrs. Jung is the first to say, “I’m sorry.” Siyoung doesn’t look at her. “I know you- you got married, right? I’m sorry. I wish we could have been closer before this.”

“We can be close now,” Siyoung says, silent resolve settling in his words. “We need to be,” he reaffirms silently. She nods.

“Certainly.”

Mrs. Jung goes to sit with her husband and Siyoung remains, laying a hand on the portion of the coffin lid that is closed. He thinks of nothing but his dream, all those years ago, of his deer staring into a coffin just like this one. Black oak, glossy, white lilies laying upon it. His dead thing sitting inside.

Siyoung ends up crying and sits away from everyone else to hide it. Despite it, he meets Mrs. Jung’s eyes from across the room. She smiles at him and Siyoung can see tears in her eyes even from this distance.

Siyoung stays for the whole funeral, mostly for the Jung family’s sake. He doesn’t drive to the gravesite, however; instead, he goes home and puts on Hunchul’s leather jacket, his favorite.

It still smells like Hunchul’s cologne and Siyoung pulls the collar up around his face. Hunchul’s parents are going to want some of Hunchul’s belongings, Siyoung is sure, but they are not getting this. If everything else can be taken from him, he deserves to keep a fucking jacket.

 

The following day, Siyoung drags his three and a half boxes full of sketches to the balcony with him. It is cold outside, wind stinging his cheeks and blowing right through his hoodie, but he could care less.

He opens the first box, the oldest one, and picks a folder up. He thumbs briefly through it, then looks at the pavement below his balcony; it's a little side street that runs between his apartment building and a lawyer's office.

Siyoung holds his arm out over the railing and lets the folder drop from his hand, sketches fluttering in the wind. Some end up stuck to the damp walls, others fly down the street, out of Siyoung's line of sight.

He stares into the empty space until all the sketches have descended, and then repeats.

He clears through two boxes this way, covering the street below him in rapidly-dampening sketchbook paper, depicting bright fires and delicate gardens drenched in red. He cannot wait to check back tomorrow and see that they've been trampled underfoot, nothing more than a dirty white pulp, stuck on the bottom of someone's shoe.

Siyoung tosses the lid to the third box over his shoulder and lifts a folder out, but he catches a glimpse of a sketch that's fallen out of its folder. He pulls it out from under the others and feels his heart lurch slightly- it's the picture from that night he woke up bleeding, the page decorated with dark brown spots and the crisp lines smudged. It is, of course, his deer and his collection of rot.

He stares at it for a few beats, feeling his bottom lip quiver, before he picks the whole box up and throws it out into the air. It was heavier than expected, so the box slips from his hands and clatters against the railing. Most of the folders dump downwards, landing directly on the pavement.

And, yet, the bloody paper is stuck to the edge of the balcony, glued there by slight dampness. Siyoung sinks to his knees and peels it off.

"I hate this," Siyoung says to himself, voice cracking. He doesn't know exactly what he's referring to. "I hate this. I hate this, why would you do this to me?"

Siyoung looks out between the gaps in the rails and sees the wet sketches bunched up on the asphalt. Siyoung wishes his body could join them down below, but he's still too scared. After all that has happened to him, he is too scared to jump.

So, he carefully picks the sketch up and takes it back inside, laying it on the counter to dry.

 

Siyoung is contacted by another prophet.

"I heard you were- you were like me," Hyungwon says, sitting awkward beside Siyoung on his couch. Siyoung hums in response. "I just... I want someone to talk to."

"Don't we all," Siyoung says with a wry smile. "What does it show you?"

"What?"

"Your visions, what do you see?"

"Oh, it's..." Hyungwon is quiet for a moment, staring at the floor. "It's deaths. If I'm near someone and they're going to die within the next thirty days, I- I can see how they're going to die. Sometimes it tells me their name and age, too."

Siyoung nods thoughtfully. "Interesting. No annoying symbolism?"

"Not really, it's plain and simple. Car accidents, fires, etcetera..." Hyungwon shrugs. "What about you?"

"Mine are packed full of symbolism. Wanna see?"

Hyungwon perks up slightly. "Sure?"

Siyoung marches over to his fridge, which has the only sketch he kept hanging on it from a magnet. He takes it, dumb alphabet magnet and all, over to Hyungwon so Hyungwon can see. "I'm the deer," Siyoung says after Hyungwon has studied it for a time. "And the dead things in the coffin are my husband."

"Oh," Hyungwon says lamely. "He-?"

"A year ago," Siyoung provides, pausing to steady himself. He still isn't _over it_. "It is the only thing my visions have ever signalled that has happened, to this day."

"What was his name?" Hyungwon asks quietly.

"Hunchul. His name was Hunchul." Siyoung is quiet for a moment before he gently takes the sketch from Hyungwon's grasp. "I loved him very much. He was the only one who... I don't know. He didn't understand me, per se, he was the same as everyone else. But he loved me, I guess- I guess that was enough."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. He told me I would be okay, and I am." Siyoung forces a smile. Hyungwon blinks at him. "I'm trying to be," Siyoung corrects softly. "I'm trying my damnedest."

Hyungwon finally returns Siyoung's smile. "Aren't we all."


End file.
